


Marked

by iknowhowyoukiss



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, another time period, cs au week, futuristic AU, soulmate tattoo au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:42:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7540171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iknowhowyoukiss/pseuds/iknowhowyoukiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They call it a ‘gift,’ but Emma Swan has only ever seen it as a burden and a trap. She's never been a big fan of having an assigned soulmate, especially one predetermined by a silly little mark, so she's spent her whole life avoiding finding him, throwing herself into work and dating at whim. It's worked for her well enough, until the one day it doesn't, and Emma is forced to come to terms with the fact that try as she might to run away from her destiny, it always finds a way to catch up. (Soulmate Tattoo AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the lovely Chinx (seastarved on Tumblr) Xx

The call comes in when Emma is fresh from the shower -- 7:30 AM on the dot -- an incessant ringing that makes her sigh heavily and rolls her eyes. It’s the same every year, and she almost ignores it when a quick glance to the caller ID screen confirms who is on the line requesting to connect. She’s knows Mary Margaret means well and that the call is meant to lend her support more than anything, but Emma finds it rather tedious and unnecessary. It’s been years since Graham’s death, and while it’s still an ache that lingers in her chest, she no longer falls apart at the mere mention of his name. She doesn’t need Mary Margaret checking up on her, especially not with her soft, sympathetic voice asking her how she’s doing. She’s doing fine, thank you. She’s doing just fine.

Besides, she knows Mary Margaret, and she knows that their conversation is going to lead into the age-old argument of Emma looking for her Mate -- her _true_ mate, the one she’d been destined for her whole life, not the man she’d simply _chosen_ to fall in love with as a defiance against the Union’s archaic notions of pre-ordained matchmaking -- and she’s hardly in the mood for it.

But she also knows Mary Margaret is just going to keep calling until she picks up, or that she’d likely drag her behind -- her very _pregnant_ behind -- over to Emma’s to check on her _in person_ , which is so much worse than chatting with her holographic image.

She sighs again, pressing the accept button on her next pass towards her dresser, and Mary Margaret -- with her pixie haircut and her sweet pixie face -- from the shoulders and up, is projected into the space before the display monitor.

“Hi, Mary Margaret,” she says, not bothering to color her voice with cheerfulness.

“Hey, you’re up early.”

“I’m up early everyday.” She ducks into her closet to change into her intimates and slip into a pair of dark jeans and a thin sweater.

“But you’re on vacation-”

“Then why are you calling me?” She pokes her head into the doorway so Mary Margaret can see her teasingly quirk her brow at her.

Mary Margaret scowls at that, realizing that Emma’s got her there, and Emma snickers, moving back out of sight to tug her sweater on.

“Let’s just get this over with, we both know why you’re calling.”

“What? I can’t just call to say ‘hi?’”

That makes Emma laugh, stepping back into her bedroom to retrieve her hairbrush from her vanity. “Nope,” she replies, popping the ‘p’ nosily.

“Fine,” she snaps grumpily. “Well? How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Emma says. “Just like I was fine last year and the year before and the year-”

“But you’re not... _great_.”

And there it is, the opening Mary Margaret was looking for.

“You _could_ be great,” she muses.

Emma turns from her reflection to face her. “Mary Margaret-”

“I just want you to be happy, Emma.”

“I know you do.” This time her tone is full of understanding and sincerity. “But you have to believe me when I tell you that I’m perfectly fine with where I am right now. I’m happy, I’ve got great friends and a stable job, and have you seen my apartment? Life’s good right now. I don’t need to have a Mate to be complete.”

“I know, _I know_. I just-” She sighs, head canting at Emma. “I worry about you sometimes.”

“Well, don’t. Not too much, at least.” She deflates instantly, offering her friend a soft smile and nodding her head at the baby bump she can’t see on the hologram. “Besides, when that little guy gets here, you’ll have more than enough to worry about.”

Her face lights up with that and area of conversation shifts into much more neutral territory, _thank god_. By the time the call ends, Emma’s mood isn’t so sour. In fact, she thinks that’s probably one of the better conversations they’ve had over the past few years.

She sets her brush down when she’s finished taking it through her hair, and her eyes are automatically drawn to the object draped over the top corner of her vanity mirror. It’s a shoelace, Graham’s to be exact, from his favorite pair of shoes.

It aches, though significantly less, and maybe one day, it will stop altogether.

Her gaze flickers to the Mark on her wrist, the soulmate identifier she and every single person in the Union had been born with. Ages ago, after the Great War and the fall of the Federation, and the near-destruction of humanity, a council comprised of a leader from each of the nine remaining realms was forged. Together, they had called upon the oldest and lightest of magic to imprint each person and their Mate with a matching tattoo -- a Mark -- that would allow them to easily recognize one another.

It was meant to speed along the courtship process and help rebuild that which had been lost, but it had become a way of life for all of them, the magic surviving the passage of time and gifting each new member born into the Union with a tattoo of their own so that the cycle continued on.

They call it a ‘gift,’ but she has only ever seen it as a burden and a trap. Emma’s never been a big fan of having a predetermined soulmate, so she’d never looked for him and had dated and loved at whim. Rebelliously, she’d even gone as far as to try to have the tattoo removed, despite Mark-tampering being a legitimate illegal thing. There are few who share her sentiments on the matter, but enough that it had been easy to find someone to attempt to help her, though going through her contacts had proved fruitless. Even in the black markets of the Underground.

Magic that old is powerful and simply doesn’t come off by any means -- enchanted or otherwise. She couldn’t even get it covered up. When she’d tried, the magic responsible for creating the Mark, had also protected it, pulsing from her and knocking the tattoo guy on his ass before he could even set needle to skin. So she did the next best thing: she altered it.

Her particular mark had been a small, yet thickly curved line -- an almost s-shaped symbol that resembled a hook -- and she’d had it transformed it into a tribal swan of sorts, turning the top part into the head and attaching a body to the end. The artist had done a fantastic job, it looked so seamless that hardly anyone would know the difference. Unless they were looking hard enough, of course, or at least knew what they were looking for. But otherwise, she’d made herself safe.

No one ever has to know and she’ll never have to deal with a soulmate.

\-----

The second call comes in just as she’s reaching for a mug of coffee in the kitchen, and this time for her cellular device. It’s David and she has no doubt that he’s checking up on her much the same way his soulmate, Mary Margaret had. She’s known him long enough to know that it’s done of his own volition, though, and not at Mary Margaret’s insistence. They’re quite the pair, the two of them, and probably one of the few partnerships brought together by the Mark that she doesn’t mind.

She still rolls her eyes when she picks up the phone.

“I’m on vacation.”

“Please, you couldn’t relax if someone hit you over the head with a sledgehammer.”

“What are you? A barbarian? Those are so ancient, nobody uses those anymore. Besides, I’d like to see them get close enough to even try it.”

“Fair point.”

She grins at that, sipping delicately at the scathing liquid. “What do you want, David? If it’s to check up on me, there’s no need, your wife already did that.”

“Hey, I can check up on you too, and that’s only half the reason why I called.”

“Ooh, I do love a good intrigue. What’s the other half?”

“I’ve got a job for you.”

She goes into battle mode reflexively, not even realizing she’s abandoned her coffee to work her way back to her room to gear up. “Weren’t you the one that _nagged_ me to take the week off?”

“ _Insisted_ , there’s a difference.”

“Hardly.”

She steps into her closet, back towards the furthest wall from the door and pushes aside the hangers on the rack to reveal a secret compartment built into the wall. She punches her security access code into the keypad screen that flickers to life, then passes through her second level of security -- fingerprint and retina scanners -- all while David is talking to her.

“Well, trust me, you want to take this one.”

She’s always had good instincts, and right now, hers are going haywire. “Who is it?”

“Jones.”

Emma pauses from perusing weapons. “Jones?”

“You heard me.”

“You mean, _Killian_ Jones? The _Union’s_ Killian Jones?”

“He’s got a pretty price on his head.”

“What’s the bounty?”

“Ten million.”

She swears, hand bracing against the wall as she tries to wrap her head around the amount. She could retire at twenty-eight with that kind of reward. “Really pissed somebody off, hasn’t he?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Who knows?”

“You, for now. But it won’t take long until word gets out.”

“Why don’t you take it?”

“Leo’s almost here, I can’t leave Mary Margaret. But I _can_ take care of you.”

“Sap.”

“Don’t tell anybody, you’ll ruin my reputation.”

“You do that well enough on your own,” she snarks, loading weapons into a duffle bag. She’s just about close the panel when she pauses to think of who she’s going after. She changes her mind and packs a few more items into a second bag.

“Ha-ha, you’re so funny,” he deadpans, making her smile again. “I’ll send over the details right now.”

“Where am I going?”

“Little town off the coast called ‘Storybrooke.’”

Her brow quirks at that as she zips up her boots. “ _Storybrooke_? Seriously?”

“Charming, I know,” David chuckles. “Check-in with me every twelve hours.”

“Will do, _Dad_.”

“Don’t you dare sass me, young lady,” he teases. “Oh, and Emma?”

She straightens when she’s done with her shoes, placing her hand on her hip. “Yeah?”

“Be careful.”

“I always am. Oh, and David?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the head start.”

She ends the call then and turns to where she keeps her jackets, pulling her hair into a ponytail while she decides on which to bring. In the end she chooses her favorite red leather one, drawing it from the hanger and shrugging into it. All she has left to do is pack some clothes, and then, it’s time to go hunting.

\-----

Jones is good, she’ll give him that much. It was damn near impossible to even pinpoint a general vicinity they might locate him in, according to David, but they’d gotten a tip off of Scarlet, who had owed them a favor from their last job.

It takes almost three weeks to track him down, and not without any effort, as the man had been ghosting from town to town just outside of Storybrooke. She is annoyed to no end over it because she’s always been good at finding people -- _really good_ \-- and this is the longest it’s ever taken her to hunt somebody down and bring them in. 

He’s good, but she’s better.

She finds him in a little pub called The Rabbit Hole, sitting in the shadowy corner of the bar, away from all of the noise and hustle and bustle of a Friday night. He’s dressed simply that evening, wearing dark jeans and a black t-shirt beneath a black leather jacket. She bides her time for an hour then makes her move, sliding into the stool beside him in a vibrant red dress that barely skims the tops of her thighs, puts her boobs on display, and leaves very little to the imagination at what lies beneath.

His eyes are on her the second she takes her seat, and even while she orders her drink. She offers him a secret little smile when she glances over, feeling a surprising jolt down her spine as their eyes meet. She’s seen his face before, splashed across the media -- the Rogue Pirate, the thorn in the Union’s side -- has spent the last three weeks studying that face, and yet, nothing could have prepared her for the reality of him. The photos don’t do him any justice, by any means, but she has no qualms about capturing a handsome man, especially for the price they’ve attached to him.

She looks away to thank the bartender for her rum and coke when it’s placed down in front of her, then lifts the glass to sip delicately at her drink while she waits for him to take the bait.

“Nice tattoo,” he comments after a moment.

“Pardon?” she asks.

He merely nods at the little swan on her wrist, his gaze flickering from the ink and back to her eyes. There’s a strange sensation that zips across her shoulders and makes the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, but she finds it difficult to place. Perhaps it’s because he brought up the tattoo and that’s always been a sore subject for her, either way, she brushes it off and angles her body towards him, schooling her face into a pleasant and inviting smile.

“Thanks. I’m Emma by the way,” she tells him, holding her hand out for him to take.

“Charmed, I’m sure.” His hand slips into hers and he gives her a firm handshake, and though he refrains from giving her his name, he holds on when she tries to pull away.

 _Gotcha_ , she thinks, doing a little celebratory dance in her mind as her smile blooms wider.

_Fin_


	2. Chapter 2

Emma’s never been above using her feminine wiles on the job, and she’s certainly not above using them now. Throughout the night, she’s basically taken all of her cues from Killian. So when he smiles at her, she smiles in turn, ducking her head briefly as if a bit shy. When he buys her another drink, she accepts, turning in the stool to angle her body towards his, inviting him into her space. When he grows bolder, openly flirting and scooting himself closer to her, she giggles accordingly and touches her hand to his shoulder, allowing it to slowly trail down the length of his arm.

And when he kisses her, leaning across the very little space left between them, naturally, she kisses back.

She’s not expecting to get knocked sideways by it, though, and she’s certainly not expecting her body’s immediate reaction to it either -- the way attraction flares to life under her skin, surging through her veins like liquid gold and lighting her up from the inside.

Holy shit but the man can _kiss_. He touches her nowhere else, save for where their mouths are fused -- the scruff of his chin rubbing against hers and his nose pressing into her check -- yet she feels as if she’s already dove headfirst into trouble. Drowning in complete sensation and desire, with no urge whatsoever to escape and resurface to reason.

It’s a frightening realization.

Not to mention dangerous. She can’t afford to allow herself to get swept up in the moment. If things were different, were he just a man and she just a woman looking to fulfill the most basic of human instincts for a night, it would be easier to give in. But things aren’t different, she’s a hunter and he just happens to be her prey. It’s all business, really, but the heady, thrilling combination of the forbiddenness of the moment and the risk of allowing him soclose is almost too tempting to resist.

Her hands reach up to grasp at the lapels of his jacket, not to draw him nearer (or so her mind says, her body might disagree), but to steady herself against the assault of his lips -- lips that are soft despite the demand of his mouth. She needs to keep her mind clear, _damn it_ , so she tries to think ahead, tries to plan for the next step. Where they go from here, when she makes her move, combat strategies, escape routes...everything she’s been trained for.

But then he tilts his head, deepening the kiss and slipping his tongue past her lips and into her mouth. It pulls an involuntary sigh from her, echoing the tug of want in her belly, and _fuck_ , he’s certainly not making it easy for her.

It’s even worse once he gets her outside, how her head spins when he backs her into the wall and presses his body against hers. How his mouth moves, aggressive and eager and so incredibly thorough that it steals her breath. His hands are everywhere, gripping her hips and sliding up her sides, grazing her breasts before tangling in her curls. It’s overwhelming.

“My place?” she offers when they break apart, gulping down air to calm her racing heart and attempt to eliminate the fog that's settled around her brain.

Killian shakes his head, “ _Mine,_ ” and there’s something possessive in the way that he says it, the way that he swoops in for one more taste of her lips.

She’s not happy about going back to his place but it is something that she anticipated might happen. They’d never located it so the layout is unfamiliar -- floor plan, exit points, security -- and that puts her at a really big disadvantage. She can already hear David’s protests and chastising voice in her mind, but she’s also worked in more dire straits before, against bigger targets, and she’s confident enough in herself to know that it’s nothing she couldn’t get out of if she ran into some trouble.

It still puts her on edge, though, but she nods anyway, offering him what she hopes appears to be an eager smile. She giggles when he pushes away and takes her hand in his, tugging her behind him as he quickly makes his way towards where his hover car is parked.

\-----

His place, surprisingly, is located right near the water, a penthouse condo of a high-rise building with floor-to-ceiling glass windows, just on the outskirts of Storybrooke. Her brows pinch together in confusion and it puts her back up a little bit as they begin to make the climb.

What is the Union’s most wanted man doing living out in the open?

She was expecting some place more isolated, more out of sight. Like somewhere in the middle of the forest with secret tunnel entrances and Level Ten security -- armed guards, cameras, laser fences, and the like.

Having noted the modernity of the tower, her trained eyes narrow in thought. She’ll have the hotel security to contend with now, probably state-of-the-art, as well as his own he’s most likely implemented in the penthouse. If things go south and she gets made, she could very well be trapped in the building with no more than a vocal command for lockdown.

She sighs quietly and tries not to think about the glaring looks she’ll get from David when she checks in with him in half an hour over video conference, and the ‘dad tone’ he’ll no doubt use on her upon hearing how the capture went down. At least he’ll get good scolding practice for when Leo grows up.

Killian lowers easily onto the landing pad floating outside of the penthouse entrance, and the minute the car door flips up to open, she is met by a small, white, round droid -- no bigger than a golf ball -- that flutters about in an almost fidgety manner. Her heart leaps into her throat when she recognizes it as a Scanner, a security droid meant to check for the presence of weapons, and all she can think of are the shrinking pods she’d put her duffles in before she’d stuck the tablet sized capsules in her clutch.

Thankfully, he waves off the droid before it can begin the scanning process, walking around to her side and holding his hand out for her to take. His smirk tilts up his lips but it does nothing to ease the bit of anxiety that's settled in her body at such a close call. She returns his smile and slides her palm over his, fingers curling around his hand the same moment his do.

Emma notes when he fails to lock the car, glancing behind her as they start towards the entrance of the penthouse and she presses her lips together to conceal her smirk. It will save her the trouble of having to do a manual override on the vehicle later, which in turn will allow for a faster departure once she gets him secured for transport. Or just for herself if she needs the escape cushion. She also notices that the suspension bridge between the pad and the doors is about one hundred feet. It would take her less an ten seconds to sprint across it if need be, which isn’t _bad_ , but when every second counts, she would prefer a much closer getaway site. Oh well, she'll make do.

She does a quick scan of the exterior, pleased to see no human guards anywhere near the pad or up ahead blocking the entrance, but she knows better than to assume he has none. If she can find his security control room, she might have a better gage of what exactly she’s up against. The only problem is that she needs to incapacitate him first before she can locate it.

The glass doors leading into the penthouse slide open when they trip the sensor, and they barely close behind her before he whirls on her, moving into her space and crushing his mouth to hers. He’s faster than she anticipated and it catches her off guard. Most things rarely do, so that’s saying a lot.

She hasn’t even been able to properly assess her surroundings now that she’s inside, has no clue if he does in fact have security on this floor, on the floor below them, or patrolling the roof. Has no idea where the main entrance is or the elevators are, if the master bedroom sits facing north, if he’s got cameras or where his weapons are concealed. She’s flying almost completely blind and right now her only ‘safe’ point of exit is the way they came.

He turns them, backing her into the nearest wall so he can brace her against it while he kisses her like he means to devour her. Her arms automatically circle around his neck, and her breath hitches when she feels his hands slip beneath her skirt, body trembling as his fingertips drag along her thighs and burn a path _up, up, up_  on her skin until they brush along the edges of her panties. She groans into his mouth, practically clawing at his back in an attempt to get closer to him and shit. Holy _shit_.

She can’t think over the persistence of his mouth and his hands on her flesh. She’s spiraling out of control, acting absolutely insane, but it’s never been like this before, all this raging heat and passion and attraction. Not just with a target, but with _anyone_ in general. It’s impossible, but when she kisses him, she feels like she’s been kissing him her whole life.

He gives her a moment’s reprieve, _thank god_ , tearing his mouth from hers to kiss a path down her neck and rake his teeth across her collarbone. Her knees nearly buckle at that, and she reaches up, tangling her fingers in the thick, dark strands of his hair and holding him to her while her eyes focus on the room.

_Breathe, Emma. Concentrate._

But then his tongue snakes out, tracing the neckline of her dress and dipping below the material to taste, and effectively annihilating every thought in her head. She swears when he does it again, head thumping back against the door as her eyes flutter close.

_Fuck._

She has to make her move, _now_ , before things get too far out of control and she does something stupid. Like sleep with him.

It’s a split-second decision, but he’s left her with no choice. She tightens her fingers in his hair, jerking his head away from her so it sends him stumbling backwards. She intends to give him her best right hook, and is thoroughly surprised when he grabs onto her wrist and twists in her hold so he can yank on her arm. He spins her around in an offensive move, bending her arm behind her and using her momentum to slam her into the wall.

Almost like he’d been expecting it.

Pain blooms in her shoulder where she’d taken the brunt of the shove and she swears once more, trapped between him and the wall.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” he hisses, lips close to her ear.

Emma grits her teeth. _Damn it._ She’s been made and she’s very, very much not in the mood for it. Instead of answering, she hooks her leg around his, using it as leverage and abruptly sending her weight backwards to catch him off balance. They go down in a tangle of limbs and she can hear the breath whoosh out of him as he takes the brunt of the fall.

A scuffle ensues and they tear apart the penthouse, the desire ignited between them forgotten in a fierce need to survive. He’s resilient, and obviously well-versed in combat, able to predict her offensive maneuvers and countering with ones of his own. She switches tactics, fakes him out with a flamboyant fan-kick before head-butting him squarely in the face and knocking him unconscious.

She’ll have to remember to thank David for teaching her that one.

She stands panting heavily over him, hands on her knees while she bends over at the waist and sucks air into her lungs. It’s amazing, and she's not entirely sure how she's managed it, but she's still got one of her heels on. She laughs under her breath and toes it off before straightening and staring at him. He’d been a fierce opponent, probably one of the best she’s ever fought, not that she would tell him.

A quick look around the room shows the destruction they’d left in the wake of their altercation -- broken glass everywhere, chairs upturned, trinkets scattered on the ground, a coffee table split in half. They’d really done a number on the place, which is a shame because it's a gorgeous penthouse and-  _oh no_. Shit. She'd forgotten about the possibility of security.

Her ears strain against the silence, fully expecting an army of guards to burst in through the doors at any moment, and her whole body tenses in anticipation. But the penthouse remains quiet save for her labored breathing, and as the seconds tick by, it appears that not a single soul has been alerted to their little scuffle.

 _Huh._ It’s incredibly strange, but if no one is coming, she has no time to worry about it anymore. She’s got to get a move on it, Killian will only be unconscious for so long, and by the time he wakes, she wants to be on their way to the capital of the Union already.

Absentmindedly, she wipes a trickle of blood from her chin with the back of her hand, wincing against the ache from the split lip she’d gotten when she had underestimated his flexibility and taken an elbow to the mouth. She assesses the rest of her body, paying close attention to where it feels the most pain. Nothing seems too bad or out of the ordinary, just some sore muscles and scrapes and bruises that couldn’t be avoided. 

But really, what’s a little discomfort in exchange for ten million dollars and an early retirement?

She huffs out a relieved sigh then gets to work. She’s got a lot to do and they’ve got a long way to travel, and with the price of the bounty on his head, it’s safer for her to get him off of her hands as soon as possible.

With her heart rate finally slowing down, she bends over to grasp his arms, intending to drag him somewhere she can handcuff him while she checks in with David and makes arrangements for transport. Plus, she has to extract her duffles from the shrinking pods, change, and arm herself with weapons.

Now that he’s in her possession, she wants to make sure he stays that way.

She’s dragged him about three feet when she happens to glance down and immediately spots it on his hip -- the dark, curling blemish revealed by his ridden up t-shirt. It makes her stagger back, makes the room spin as her eyes go wide and disbelieving. The sight of it is a stronger blow than anything he could have physically dealt her and her stomach bottoms out.

For the first time in her life, she thinks she’s going to pass out.

“No,” she shakes her head, eyes unwavering on the symbol marring his skin. Her fist presses tight against the knot that’s twisted itself beneath her breastbone. “No, it can’t be.”

But it is, clear as day, identical to the one on her wrist. Before she’d had it altered anyway.

To her complete and utter dismay, Killian Jones isn’t just the most wanted man in the realm with a hefty price on his head, he’s her goddamn soulmate too.

The call comes in then, a distinct buzzing sound that interrupts her meltdown, and Emma backs away to retrieve her clutch from where she’d dropped it by the wall when he'd first pounced on her. God, it explains so much -- her response to him, the attraction between them. Her stomach clenches again, and she has to brace her back against the wall to keep upright. She pulls a thin, clear, business card-sized device out, and presses her finger against it to accept the call. David’s face flashes across the screen, his expression hard and worried.

“You missed your check-in time, where the hell have you been?” he says.

“Busy,” she snaps back.

“Well, you’re about to be even busier. We have a problem.”

Emma’s eyes flicker to Killian’s still form just a few feet away. “Yeah, no shit.”

_Fin_


End file.
